


The Fourth Woman

by BushRat8



Category: Elysium (2013)
Genre: F/M, Oh the look on Kruger's face!, Serves him right, Sort-of Smut, Tables turned, Watch Out Because The R-Word Is In There
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/BushRat8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everything goes as planned in Agent Kruger's interrogation room, and occasionally, the tables are turned.  In other words, sometimes Kruger's sense of omnipotence needs a good smack upside the head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fourth Woman

A/N:  I'm having a little fun at Kruger's expense.  All conditions/disorders mentioned are indeed real and can produce these results, although one could certainly get around them with some effort.  Note, note, note, because I don't want anyone accusing me of not doing my research:  I am using one of the old-fashioned terms because it's simply more descriptive and instantly understandable. 

I make no apologies for anything Kruger might say or do.  He is what he is.

For IvebeenKrugered, who requested it and suggested the title.  If she's the only person who ever reads it, I'll be happy.

 

-oOo-

The Fourth Woman

-oOo-

 

Watching her through the tiny spyhole in the door, Kruger decides he likes this subject.  She has a supple attractiveness that will make it a joy to break her.  No keeping his hands off this one;  given half a chance, he's going to grope every bit of flesh he can possibly reach.  He's not one not to take advantage of opportunities given.

Before every interrogation, he's provided with a thick file that he generally doesn't read.  Oh, the first few pages, certainly, telling him what information he needs to retrieve, but the rest of it has all the interest of the dry textbooks he was forced to slog through in school.

This file is no different — it tells how and where and why the woman was arrested, and that he needs to extract five names, which is straightforward enough — and although Kruger takes it into the room for the air of official authority it gives him, he soon tosses it aside, heedless of papers that skitter out of the battered brown folder and fall on the floor.  "Well, sweetheart,"  he says.  "I don't suppose you know why we're having this little face-to-face, do you?"

Strange.  She doesn't look at all frightened of him;  if anything, she looks… interested and appraising.

Kruger dismisses this initial impression.  She excites him and he'd like to touch her, but for the moment, he keeps his distance.  "Seems the higher-ups think you know some things,"  he goes on.  "That you know a few people they're trying to find."  His tone is lightly conversational.  "You know what they're talking about, eh, doll?"

The woman hasn't taken her eyes off him, and he gets the idea that she examining him:  for height and strength, for build and masculinity.  It's a very, very unsettling feeling for Kruger to be looked at like that in these surroundings.  He doesn't even know if what he's sensing is true, or if it's just his own permanent state of lust talking.

No matter,  he tells himself.  This is an interrogation, not some back-alley dalliance or cathouse transaction.  Whatever information this woman has, and however hard she might try to keep it from him, he knows exactly how to get into her head in order to make her divulge it.

He's got plenty of time, so he might as well take this slow;  get himself a little more pleasantly worked up while he's at it.  "If I loosen those,"  Kruger says, indicating the ties that bind the woman's wrists and ankles together,  "you gonna stay put, eh?  Not make trouble?"  It's a simple question he often asks to get his subjects used to giving answers.

The woman does indeed answer it, first by putting her wrists out, then extending her legs in a slow, inviting gesture which the brain in Kruger's head ignores, but the one in another part of him doesn't.  "Now, you be a good girl,"  he says, patting her calf, alert to the possibility of getting kicked in the gut, face, or balls. 

His questions are quiet at first, and for an hour or so, he remains seated in front of her as he does with all women;  a tad too close and much too open, as that always unnerves them.  It forces them to be aware of his body — of its heat and reactions — and it scares them to death.  Kruger lets this woman, too, see exactly what he's made of, never realizing that it's just what she wants and he's only defeating his own purpose.

"… I just went to dinner with the guy,"  she says earnestly, dropping her gaze to travel along Kruger's thighs.  "Really.  Just once, but then all of a sudden, I have people kicking down my door."

"Seems you went out with more than one oke, sweetheart,"  Kruger tells her, recalling a note from the file.  "More like six of them.  Who were the others?"

The woman shrugs.  "I went out with one.  The others were there.  But I didn't know any of them…"

Kruger gets up and walks around in back of her, his hands descending upon her shoulders and his thumbs stroking her neck just a little too hard beneath her hair.  "I don't believe you,"  he whispers, his lips so close to her ear that the warmth of his breath makes her skin damp.

She should be tense and shrinking away from him, but she isn't and she's not. This isn't the usual chain of events, nor is what happens next.

The woman turns her head, nestling her cheek against Kruger's arm, breathing in the unwashed saltiness of his skin.  She's observed him all the time he was observing her, and she likes what she sees.  She _likes_ his furriness and his frightening dark eyes, his harshly-accented voice and dirty hands and the grime that nothing short of sandblasting will ever remove.  She doesn't particularly like that she's in an interrogation room, of course, but in her mind, that's not the most important thing.  What is, is that she's had an endless procession of men —  a whole bottomless ocean of them — but never one like Kruger.

But all he knows is that, for reasons he can't discern, this is somehow getting out of his control, and he doesn't like it.  Time to lay into her with what he knows works with every woman, and this time, he'll be cutting to the chase with the hands-on approach.

Kruger's not going to make further threats behind her back, but returns to his place before her, knife in hand.  "I'm not gonna fucking ask you again, doll,"  he growls, drawing the blade upward and slitting both blouse and brassiere, cutting sleeves and straps, tearing them off.  "Who were the men you were with, eh?  What were their names?"

There is silence, and the woman's skirt and red silk knickers join the pile of ruined clothing on the floor.

In spite of all his years, Kruger hasn't bothered to learn very much about women, and he doesn't recognize what he's seeing.  The red flush on his subject's skin is not the embarrassment shown by the others:  it's arousal;  the glassy look in her eye, not fright, but anticipation.  The only problem she's having now is holding her tongue so she doesn't beg Kruger for what he so clearly thinks he's 'inflicting.'

Her nipples are hard, which he mistakenly attributes to the coldness of the room.  "Talk to me,"  he hisses, twisting them to the point of pain,  "and this'll stop."  Kruger kneels, looks up at her through narrowed eyes, then shrugs, and takes one soft breast into his mouth, sucking none-too-gently and scraping the flesh with his teeth.

 _Stop?!_   the woman is thinking as she fights to keep her moans silent and tries not to pant.  _Listen, you luscious beast of a man:  you're not stopping anything._

For the next few minutes, Kruger keeps on, stopping periodically to ask if she's ready to talk, until he's left deep red marks that won't go away for weeks.  The rest of her body gets a good going-over with his hands, fondling and stroking as he repeats his questions, and his frown deepens when he realizes she's even less inclined to talk than she was before.

For an instant, Kruger's so, _so_ tempted to break his personal rule about never using an unwilling woman's mouth, because this one… although he's sure he's imagining things, he can't help the overwhelming feeling that she'd not dare bite him.

The thought of it provokes in him a fresh raging wave of lust and anger, and he yanks the woman out of her chair, arms around her, breasts crushed against his rough, dirty shirt, and he rips his sharp fingernails down her back and up the soft flesh of her thighs and backside, drawing blood.  He does it repeatedly before dropping her down, where she sits, sweating, mewling slightly and looking up at him, tears of pain in her eyes and a strange expression of satisfaction on her face that he doesn't remotely recognize for what it is.  "Talk to me!"  Kruger snarls.  "You could have spared yourself that!  Now give me those fucking names!"

When she does nothing more than blink at him, he brings out his favorite weapon, telling her his bedtime story, astounded when the threat of his fathering a child on her leaves her unmoved.

He scowls, and 'fury' doesn't come anywhere close to what he's feeling.

The tale left three other obstinate women unmoved, too — at least, until he actually did it — so that's the next thing up on Kruger's list.  "Get up, get up!"  he orders, muscling her over to a wooden table, where he tips her backwards, attributing her lack of resistance to the pain of the cuts on her legs and buttocks and back.  Having no wish to abrade his own tender skin, he spits in his hand — once, twice, and again — strokes it around himself by way of down-and-dirty lubrication (never noticing that _she_ certainly doesn't need it), hooks her knees over his arms, and digs in.

Kruger can't see this as anything other than rape, and he enjoys it immensely, especially when the woman suddenly begins to whimper and groan and wail.  _Five minutes, fifteen minutes, forty minutes, wa-a-ay up inside you,_   he chants in his head in echo of the story he's just told her.  _Oh ja, ja, ja, you little bitch;  you're one of the best I've ever had…_

Wait a minute.

Wait, did she just push back against him?  Not to push him away, but to meet him;  to draw him closer?  That softness… did he just feel her press her lips into his neck?

That wailing… it's not outrage.  Far from it.  It's _pleasure._

Kruger's too far gone to stop, but the moment he's finished and the breathless shuddering that grips him fades, he jumps back.  He says nothing as he tucks in and zips up, only watches the woman's reactions as he retreats to ascertain for himself what's really going on.

She's moaning, twisting her hips slightly, still trying to reach him.

_What… the… fuck?_

The look on Kruger's face is a priceless mixture of wariness, astonishment, and wrath;  he feels he's been taken advantage of, and if he doesn't watch out, he might be so again.  The woman's lying there, fairly twinkling to herself, and he's dumbfounded.  "I think we're done here for the moment, sweetheart,"  he said, low and gruff, pulling her to her feet and throwing her torn skirt at her, trying to re-exert some measure of control.  He's never been at such a loss before, and there's nothing else he can think of to say or do.

Then the woman rubs it in by giving him a wide, beaming smile of contentment, snuggling into the length of cloth before she echoes,  "Yes, sir.  For the moment."

 

-oOo-

-oOo-

 

It's early evening, the woman's back in her cell, and Kruger's pacing around, throwing punches at each wall as he comes to it.  He's so damned furious with himself, because the answers were right there in front of him, if only he hadn't been so lazy.

Yes, he enjoyed it, every bit of it — oh _God_ , she was good — but that's not the point.  He was assigned to get information, and he failed.

Kruger failed because he was too cocksure, too certain that he knew what would break her.  He should have read her file through all the way to the end, boring or not;  if he had, he wouldn't have wasted time on his typical threats.  After all, there's no terrorizing a woman with ravishment or pain or an unwanted child when her med/psych report says in three succinct words:

Nymphomaniac. 

Masochist.  

Barren.

-oOo-

FIN

-oOo-


End file.
